


Raise Your Hand if You've Ever Felt Personally Victimized by Daisy Tonner

by sugarboat



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Frottage, Grinding, Hand Jobs, Praise Kink, Weird Power Dynamics, wound care, wound debridement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-21 00:58:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15546081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarboat/pseuds/sugarboat
Summary: Jon's garbage at taking care of himself, but this is common knowledge. In the wake of a failed coup and his encounter with Jude Perry, Daisy finds herself inclined to lend a helping hand.AKA, Daisy bullies Jon; they're both kind of into it.





	Raise Your Hand if You've Ever Felt Personally Victimized by Daisy Tonner

“Sims,” Daisy says, right after she’s already marched into his office unannounced, kicking the door shut behind her. “We need to have a chat.” 

“Daisy, come in. Make yourself at home.” 

There’s a bag slung over her shoulder, and she deposits it in a heap in the middle of his desk. She pulls out the chair across and settles herself, a corner of her mouth hooked sharply upwards. Her eyes are intent, like always, her posture languid. Somehow, she still manages to radiate waves of tightly corded anticipation. 

She doesn’t answer him. Just waits, expectantly. 

Jon huffs out an annoyed breath. Really? He holds her gaze for a moment longer and then returns his attention to the pages sprawled across his desk, though the thread of what he’d been doing is long lost. He can feel her watching him. The scabbing skin across his neck throbs dully. His hand, in its bandages, feels grotesquely swollen. 

Her bag lies heavy just above the loose sheets that represent a few people’s most intimate fears. There are no outward hints as to what might be inside. 

It can’t be more than a minute before Jon is sighing. He drops his pen to the table, grateful again that he’d somehow had the wherewithal to offer Jude his nondominant hand, and glares up at Daisy. Her grin has stretched, lips peeling backwards to bare her teeth. They’re straight and white and her incisors look too sharp, but that’s probably only because Jon knows what Patron she serves. 

“You wanted something,” Jon states. 

“Told you already, Jon,” she says, leaning forward in her seat, “You and I need to have a little talk.” 

“I can’t imagine there’s anything left to talk about.” Impatience seeps through his tone. “Elias has us pretty well stalemated, and in case you’ve forgotten, he can see and hear us at all times, so planning another attempt isn’t exactly on the table.” 

“Hmm, no. Not yet,” she agrees. “But I’m not here about that. This doesn’t concern Elias – well, as much as anything that concerns you can not concern him, too.” 

As if Jon is unaware of that. As if he’s _happy_ about it, and his fists clench in irritation- at least until a riot of pain jutters out from all the nerve endings still alive in his left hand and he hisses a pained exhale between his clenched teeth. It screams though his entire body, whites the edges of his vision, and he has to forcibly stretch out both hands against the table, hoping what had happened wasn’t too obvious. 

The way Daisy’s watching him now reminds of a cat. The stillness of her, the rapt focus. It looks like it takes effort for her to stir herself into motion again, to lapse indolently back into her chair. The next smile she gives is slow, and satisfied.

“How’s your neck doing?” she asks.

Jon’s uninjured hand drifts up to cover the ugly wound, fingers skating over the hard, raised line of it. “Just fine, thanks so much for asking.”

“It looks good on you,” she says. It’s hard to tell, sometimes, if she think she’s being funny or if she’s just being mean. “And the hand?” 

Attention called, it gives a pulse of deep, radiant pain, an ache that goes down to the bone. Like it remembered Jude’s touch, her fingers melting through his skin, until he was sure that nothing but bone would stop her and that even then, she would boil his marrow to soup. 

“It’s fine,” he says. Daisy raises a pointed eyebrow.

“What do they have you doing for it?” 

“Why-” The question’s caught him off guard. It’s rather earnest, coming from her. “Change the bandage, keep it clean – the usual.”

Daisy hums, and nods. “They have you putting anything on it?” 

“Some, I don’t know, silver stuff.” Jon wonders if she would be able to touch it, the salve they’d prescribed him. Which is ridiculous, because this isn’t a 90s werewolf movie, and even if it were-

Even if it were, she’s not the monster; she’s the Hunter. 

“And you’ve been taking care of it?” 

“I- yes,” Jon snaps. He’s only partially lying. “I’ve been taking care of it, I think I know how to take care of myself.” 

“Agree to disagree, then,” she says, and she’s up out of her seat in a smooth motion, stalking around the side of his desk. He pushes his chair back, the better to keep his eyes on her. She settles on the edge of the desk and rests one finger on the bottom of his chin, tilting his head further back. “I can smell it from here, Jon.” 

His stomach gives a nauseating roll.

“S-smell it,” Jon repeats flatly. Christ, that’s revolting.

“It’s sweet,” she says, and uses both hands to draw his left towards her, holding him above the wrist. “Like a carcass left to bake in the sun.” 

“I suppose you’d know.”

“Yes. I know what something left to rot smells like.” 

Jon swallows. He watches her hands, deceptively slender, as she traces a straight line across his bandages with a finger. Somehow, he’s completely unready for her grip to change, for her fingers to wrap around his palm and squeeze, the pain bright enough to consume him, and he knows he’s jerking his arm, trying to get away, but her hands are like two vices, one clamped around his wrist and the other unrelenting on his mutilated hand. 

She eases up, but it takes a while for him to notice. It takes a while for him to notice anything above the roaring agony throbbing up his arm, that continues to pound even when his hand falls to the side, back onto the armrest. 

“Ignoring it isn’t going to make it go away,” she says. “Figured you’d have learned that one by now.” 

Daisy reaches across the table and drags her bag closer to them while Jon tries to settle himself. It feels like his whole body is trembling. His skin ice cold except for underneath his bandages, where it feels so hot, and damp. 

“No,” Jon says. His voice is shaking. “I’m not an idiot, I’m not- _ignoring_ it, I just-”

He stops. Not sure what he intended to say, except that he isn’t ignoring anything, how could he ignore something like that? 

“Right,” Daisy says. She upends the bag, its contents spilling onto his desk. “Look, far be it from me to interrupt your self-destruction here, but were you intending to keep your hand or no?” 

There’s a thick towel. A fresh roll of gauze, a squeeze bottle of some clear solution. Something that looks disconcertingly like a clump of steel wool. Daisy takes the towel and folds it, layering it over the table. 

“Obviously, Daisy, I intended to keep my hand.” He rolls his eyes. However, it’s impossible to deny the cold chill that has clenched in his chest at her words. It- surely, it isn’t that bad?

She’s leaning her weight on one arm, eying him critically. It feels like she’s deciding something; what that might be, Jonathan has no idea. Daisy pats the small bed she’s made out of the towel. 

“Let me see it,” she says. 

Jon only hesitates for a moment before he puts his left hand forward. Settles it down onto the towel, and Daisy’s hands are swift and sure, surprisingly gentle as she lifts it and unravels the gauze. He has to look away from the mottled flesh she uncovers – it’s weird, tinged almost grey, and it doesn’t seem to fit exactly right anymore. 

“This doesn’t look good, Sims.” 

“Really? Next I suppose you’ll be telling me the sky is blue or that my boss is actually some horrible, murderous monstrosity.” 

“Stuff it, or I’ll leave you to it – and you will lose the hand.” 

Daisy turns his hand, palm up and palm down. Something seems to be sloshing around beneath his skin, and Jon can’t suppress a shudder. Her lips are pursed. It almost looks like he’s wearing a glove. A shoddy imitation of a real hand. 

There are a million questions racing through his head. How bad it really is. What she’s going to do about it. Why she’s doing anything at all, though he can guess at that one – something to do with Basira, most likely. Jon keeps them to himself. He doesn’t doubt for a moment that Daisy would follow through on her threat. Probably believes whatever obligation has brought her to his office has already been met. If he’s at the mercy of her kindness, he feels on quite thin ice. 

“You see this?” she asks, and pinches a bit of his skin between her fingers. He sucks in a breath, but the pain isn’t as all encompassing as he anticipated. She lifts and it just… pulls away from his hand, tenting above the muscle and bone. “It’s all dead skin. Won’t heal properly as long as it’s on there.” 

“That’s… disgusting,” he says. 

Daisy chuckles, and turns his hand again, palm up. Jon manages to force himself to look down at it, puffy dead skin stretching between these sunken, dark craters, where it looks like his flesh had just collapsed in on itself. 

“It’s got to go.” She picks up the steel wool, or the thing that looks like steel wool. “That’s where this comes in.” 

“You can’t be serious,” Jon says. 

“It’s going to hurt,” she says quietly. “But, it’s your choice. Either I scrape it off – god knows you won’t do it yourself – or you let that shit fester on your hand, seep into all those open wounds; lose your hand, if you don’t go septic first.” 

There it is – his choices always seem to narrow to two equally noxious options, and Jon can’t help but to laugh. Daisy raises an eyebrow but doesn’t speak. She’s made her offer, she’s not going to try and sway him either way. It’s actually refreshing, even if the illusion of choice is as flimsy as ever. 

“Fine,” he says. “Do it.”

“This is a favor, you know.” Despite her words she settles Jon’s hand into the middle of the towel, uncaps the bottle of mystery liquid. 

“…Please. Just- do it quickly. If you can.” 

Daisy’s lips twitch upwards. Not quite a smile, but Jon can tell she’s amused. She braces one hand on his wrist, and with the other douses his hand in what feels like water. Then she picks up the steel wool and brings it to the back of his hand. It’s hovering above his skin – dead skin – not yet touching. She looks up to him again.

“It’s going to hurt,” she repeats. Jon takes a deep breath and nods. Clenches the fingers of his good hand into the leather of his armrest. “Well. I’ll go quick.” 

That’s all the warning he gets before Daisy is scrubbing that thing into his skin. Scrubbing through his skin, each swipe tearing free that greyed, festering skin and pain ignites behind his eyes. It’s as bad as when Jude was first holding him, when he could smell his flesh bubbling around her hand, all of his faculties bent to experience this one sensation, burning, incessant agony. 

It lasts forever. His nails are digging into the seat, his teeth are clenched so hard they might snap, crack and crumple into dust against one another. Small, whining noises are leaking from his throat, and he has no way to stop them. Scrape, scrape, scrape, across the back of his hand, and each stroke clears away rotted skin and he can see smooth, pink flesh, a white and cloudy liquid seeping from his hand. 

She moves from there to his fingers, wrapping the wool around each and tugging, degloving them of their fetid flesh one by one. Jon can feel hair clinging to his forehead, the nape of his neck, damp with sweat. He’s shaking when Daisy suddenly shushes him, brushes the hair out of his face.

“Halfway there now, Sims,” she says. 

He’s not sure if it’s supposed to be reassuring, somehow, because next she flips his hand again, and his palm is so much worse, so much more involved, the bulk of Jude’s hand having squeezed and molded its shape. Those pitted craters are on that side, too, and he shudders to think what lies at the base of them, beneath all the crusted eschar shrouding them. 

“You’re doing well,” she says. 

It’s unfair how the statement – hardly more than an offhand comment - makes a warmth curl inside him, even beneath the rabid terror coursing through his veins, the utter dread as she douses this side of his hand. She teases the wool across his skin, not using enough pressure to dig in, just enough to make him shiver and groan until she smiles.

“Sorry; couldn’t resist.”

Daisy starts in again, and Jon was right – this side is so much worse. His arm is jerking spastically, blindly trying to flee, but Daisy’s fist is locked tight around his wrist still, and she just tugs him closer whenever he manages to put any ground between them. The world shrinks, his vision tunneling, until he’s nothing but the skin Daisy is flaying away, singing through every inch of his body, tightening every muscle, until it crests, sharply and suddenly, and Jon feels himself slumping forward.

He can hear her voice, but the words won’t make any sense, don’t coalescence into anything meaningful beyond her tone, annoyed and exasperated. It twists inside him oddly, until he feels one of Daisy’s hands cool on his forehead, guiding him backwards and leaving with a lingering stroke down the side of his neck. 

The pain, lapsed for a moment, reignites, white flares devouring his entire arm. It’s impossible to tell how long it lasts, impossible to make sense of how it peaks, never plateaus, only climbs and climbs and climbs in jagged leaps. It settles deep into him, swallows him with its entirety, pulses behind his eyes and in his ears and between his temples. 

Jon doesn’t realize how completely disconnected he’s become until later, when he finds himself twitching sore and overworked muscles feeling like he’s just run a marathon. He blinks, and between one moment and the next the world goes from a blank, muted canvas to something approaching normalcy. He sees his left hand, curled on a towel soaked with washed out red and yellow fluids, wet and pink and new-looking. Pain still pounds out from it, but it’s nothing like the reality-wiping sensation from earlier. 

There are curls of dead flesh matted together all around it. He tries not to think about those. 

Daisy has sat herself fully on the desk, and her eyes are already on him when he finally looks to her face. 

“Welcome back,” she says. “You took that well.” 

There’s some lag between his thoughts and his movements, but he does his best to scoff. His fingers twitch ineffectually in the air.

“…Thanks. I guess.” His voice is a little raw, from whatever sounds he’s been making for past… however. He doesn’t want to think about that, either. 

“Yeah. Got some good news for you, too.” 

That shouldn’t send a spike of trepidation through him, but, well – it’s Daisy. She’s a bit terrifying. 

“…You have good news,” he restates carefully. 

“Already thought of a way you can even the score; pay me back for… services rendered, we can say.” 

It’s a tempting thought. Jon’s had more than his fair share of being indebted to monsters. And as before, Daisy waits – she’s made her offer. 

“All right, all right,” he spits. He knows better than to hope he’ll someday be lucky enough to wriggle out from her thumb; best to just not be under it in the first place. A biting, sardonic part of him thinks that Elias would be proud. “So, you’ve thought of how I can even the score.” 

“Good choice,” she says slowly, words drawn out like honey dribbling from a bear’s claw. “It’s pretty simple – you’re actually getting off light. Let’s just put those fingers to good use, huh? Make sure everything’s in working order?” 

Jon doesn’t really know what she’s saying. Until she’s hopped off the desk and her deft, clever fingers are unclasping her pants, and then, it’s just-

“…Really.” 

“That’s right.” She’s smiling, bright and wide and vicious. “Said you were getting off light.” 

Daisy tugs her slacks down, and Jon gets a glimpse of her underwear – plain and jet black – before she’s yanked them down as well, and he’s staring at the whole of her, underneath a soft looking patch of neatly trimmed curls. 

“I can’t believe you’re serious,” Jon says, but he’s already leaning forward, bringing his right hand to slip between her thighs. 

He stops when Daisy tangles a fist in his hair and yanks, hissing out a breath as his neck is twisted to one side. Then she’s dragged him forward, encouraging him out of his chair and it doesn’t take a whole lot of guesswork on his part to drop down to his knees, glaring up at her in annoyance.

“What can I say? You’re being more… interesting, than normal,” she says. Now that he’s on the floor she pets his hair in unsubtle approval. “It’s a good look for you; on your knees. I bet I’m starting to see what your master sees in you.” 

And an unsubtle dig that has Jon pursing his lips. Daisy laughs. 

For once, Jon takes what might be the prudent choice. He doesn’t respond; instead he reaches for her again, and again he’s stopped, her fingers tight and unyielding around his right hand. Jon can feel his upper lip curl and he yanks his hand away.

“I thought you wanted me to-” 

“I’ve already told you what I want; you’re not listening.” Waiting, having given him enough rope to hang himself, but this time Daisy gives in, sighing. “Did you forget already? I said we were going to put those fingers to good use.” 

Awareness comes about slowly, but when it does, the fingers of left his hand twitch. Every movement is still agonizing, sending sparks leaping down his nerve endings. It feels less bloated now; still clumsy, however, and that’s before taking into consideration that it’s his nondominant hand. 

Somehow, he gets the feeling that Daisy isn’t pushing this out of curiosity of his dexterity. 

Is this really worse than the alternative might be? The unknown hanging above his head. 

Jon sighs, and slips his left hand between her thighs. Daisy makes a satisfied rumble in her throat, and Jon tries not to gag at the wet trail he leaves across her skin as he traces his way up to her apex. It’s strange, a weird challenge, as his fingers aren’t giving back any kind of sensory input he knows how to interpret. Nothing but varying levels of pain that have his body quaked with tremors on the floor before her. 

He drags his fingers up and down the swell of her lips, and then slips his middle finger inside her up to the third knuckle. She gasps and twists her hand in his hair, and Jon smirks up at her. 

“Is that all?” she taunts, smile unmoving as he slides his finger in and out of her slick heat. 

Jon adds a second finger. It comes through muddled and confused – the feeling of her clenching tight around him. Vaguely familiar from the few times he’d done this for Georgie, but he remembers that being more fun. Georgie’s voice breathless, eager to laugh and tease, and so deeply satisfying to break with a moan. He curls his fingers inside Daisy, pressing incessantly at the forward wall of her, and earns himself stifled little sighs of enjoyment, his thumb crooking to rub circles into her clit.

That might be the most he gets out of her. But that would be settling, and Jon’s really never known how to quit while he’s ahead.

“Do you mind if I-” he stops himself, frustrated. “I’d like to…”

Daisy tightens her grip in his hair again, and he’s sure she’s going to force him to properly say it. His face is burning hot already.

“I’m not going to say no if it’s on the table,” she says instead. It might be the largest act of mercy she’s ever committed. 

Jon leans forward, starting at her inner thighs, sucking and biting at the firm flesh while he works his way higher. He nips gently at one side of her sex, then the other, digging his teeth in when he feels her shift restlessly. Daisy shoves her hips forward and Jon starts in on her earnestly, then, sucking at her clit while he rubs her inner walls with his fingers. 

He spreads her open wide, almost cruelly, and delves his tongue inside her. 

“Jon,” she breathes. “You’ve been holding out on me. All this time, your mouth’s gotten plenty of use, but you haven’t done anything useful with it, have you?” 

He hums, close to his lips, lets the sound buzz through him and relishes the way Daisy hitches against him. 

“Someone’s taught you well,” she says appreciatively, and her tone is enough to make him shift his hips, slightly. 

All at once Daisy hitches him upwards by his shirt, twisting them about so that Jon has his back to the desk. She gives him a fleet, impersonal kiss, and pushes him backwards, Jon falling willingly onto its surface. He licks his lips, tasting her heady on him, thinking of Georgie swiping a finger across the slick and spit coating his chin before slipping it between his lips, and his cock gives a jolt of interest. 

Daisy climbs atop him, popping the button of his slacks open, shucking his pants and boxers just far enough to let his dick spring free. Then she’s grinding against him, all heat and velvet smooth, her lips gripping his length and her clit a hard rock as she rolls her hips against him, again and again. 

Jon gasps, clutching at her ass and pulling her harder into him. She rips his hands off of her, gathers up his wrists in one hand and pins them above his head. Leans down to sink her teeth into the side of his neck while he arches up into her, legs spreading wide to give her room for whatever she wants to happen. 

She’s getting close – he tell can by the rapid increase of her pace, her pelvis grinding almost painfully into him. She slips a knee beneath his thigh and forces his leg up higher, higher. She’s panting against his neck, snippets of phrases - _yes, Jon, come on_ \- and he does his best to make things good for her. Bares his neck to her willful mouth, rolls his hips upwards to meet hers, and it’s only a few moments more that she lasts before she’s freezing, muscles clenching and releasing in fits above him.

When she’s still and quiet above him, Jon noses at her neck, closing his mouth over her soft skin. She smells good. His cock aches, smeared with her fluid; he feels abruptly cold when she drags herself away from him. 

There’s a moment where they’re both quiet, Jon catching his breath while he stares up at the ceiling. He can hear Daisy fixing her clothes, and his hands are sluggish as he goes to correct his own. 

“Were you recording something when I came in?” Daisy asks. Jon lifts himself to a sitting position with a groan.

“Uh, the usual, you know,” he says. “Statements.”

He wonders why she would ask, and then- oh, of course. A tape recorder is sitting on his desk, the red recording light of its eye wide and unblinking. Without another word he leans over and presses the tape off. 

Daisy snorts.

“Hope that one’s not going in the Archives, right?”

**Author's Note:**

> My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperial, can you say the same?


End file.
